


Voyeur

by fireflysglow_archivist



Category: Firefly
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-16
Updated: 2003-02-16
Packaged: 2019-04-29 09:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14470029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireflysglow_archivist/pseuds/fireflysglow_archivist
Summary: River has no choice in what she sees.





	Voyeur

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Firefly’s Glow](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Firefly%27s_Glow), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Firefly's Glow collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/fireflysglow/profile).

 

Voyeur

## Voyeur

### by Nicole Clevenger

voyeur  
by nicole clevenger (c) january 2003 

firefly and the characters within are the mutli-layered creation of my literary hero joss whedon and of mutant enemy. (i refuse to credit fox television, because they've made one too many moronic programming decisions in my book.) this is nothing but a simple sex-related diversion. 

* * *

i can hear them in my dreams. 

their fingers are everywhere, reaching, pulling, caressing. they tangle themselves in my hair, brush against my skin. they distract me from the place i was, leading me like a smoke tendril to the place they are. i open my eyes to the darkness, and i can see them. 

his pale lips trail down her long dark neck. smooth skin and gentle curves, all woman under her warrior armor. he marvels as always that she can be both, that she can wear two costumes without the hint of seams. the idea is but a flicker in an ignored corner of his mind, his awareness wholly taken now by her flavor, her smell. 

we gasp as his mouth finds a sensitive spot just behind her ear. his hands roam her body, exploring territory familiar yet always as fresh as the first discovery. his hands shook then, unable to believe their good fortune. unable to believe that what he'd hoped for had come, that she'd finally taken him to her bed... 

her hands are not still either. they grope and fondle, running everywhere over this man she loves. he grounds her, gives her new purpose. in his vulnerability she finds his strength, so unlike the rough death she so often finds herself surrounded by. he is not a soldier. he holds her heart so gently. 

his tongue, then his teeth, find her earlobe. pleasure shivers its way down our bodies, quicksilver light. she growls, shifting her hips up from beneath to brush against him. i feel his shudder through me as clear as the last. 

rolling, twisting, writhing. clothing removed by practiced fingers, a controlled rush of rising passion. pieces of cloth spilling off the sides of the bed; dim glow glinting like starlight off a dulling belt buckle. they do not pause to see these cast-off items land. their only reality is the other. 

skin on skin, shades of color blending like cream in coffee. hands everywhere, knowing touches still inquisitive. i can feel the breath of fingerprints on my buzzing flesh, whispering over my surfaces. she arches her back, pulling him closer as his clever tongue finds her breast, her nipple. he is warm against her, but she is warmer still. 

there are moths, and they beat their wings across my skin. teasing touch. my body wishes to lift itself from the bed, to meet them. to make their tactility a thing substantial. their need has crept into my empty spaces and is now my own. the moths flutter helplessly in my brain, scattering the thoughts that try to creep through. 

his palm smoothes over her flat, toned stomach. one finger enters her, then two; we moan at the sensation. stretching to meet him, hands sliding over every accessible surface. pliant flesh gives way to toned muscle, shifting and grinding and merging. 

fingers join the dance without my consent, playing music overheard in another room. they are but an extension of another, no part of me. i am aware of them for but a moment before the houselights dim again and the show surrounds me with its textures and scents. 

when he's with her, he can taste sunlight on skin, things growing in rich soil. to her, he is apples and cool, clear water. he aches for her, and she for him. they are alone in this moment, frozen in the golden light of their mutual joy. the darkness cannot touch them. they swim in the light. 

another tingling shiver as their heat builds. i can hear their bodies singing, a perfectly tuned harmony. wave lengths and energy particles, creating a universe inhabited only by themselves. 

i drift between their universes. 

she pins him to the thin mattress, reversing their positions. the display of her strength excites him, amuses him. her mouth is everywhere - a hungry thing, sucking, biting - as she takes hold of him and guides him into her. he utters her name like sacred texts, all holy reverence and awe. we barely breathe as they move together, slow dancing to their own music. the only couple on the dance floor. 

i sway to their music, consumed by their fire. there is nowhere to hide from their blinding lights. the darkness of my room is no match for the flames of theirs, and i can do nothing but burn with them. i cannot break away until they release me. 

i am their prisoner. they don't even know they've captured me. 

the moths grow more anxious; their wings beat faster, more frequently. the flames grow higher, hotter. it's so hard to breathe in this thick, cloying air. sweat-slicked skin, salty wet friction. i feel him moving inside me; i taste her on my lips. 

i am the ghost in the space between them. i am the blood rushing in their ears. i am them. they are me. 

the picture wavers; he is here. slipping into my dream dance like a ghost himself, his clever hands moving over me like they've known the way all along. no need for a map; he finds my center with his long, delicate fingers. hands that heal. hands with lines of sorrow and pain. lines that never will come off no matter how he scrubs at them. 

he whispers my name - new shades mixing with old - making me real with the syllables that fall from his tongue. 

a wave of pleasure crashes over my head, nearly drowning me. then another. after a moment, i open my eyes to the solitary darkness. 

end. 

#### If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Nicole Clevenger


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